


Late Back

by billyp



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:36:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5574790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billyp/pseuds/billyp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley comes back to London after a year away - but where is Aziraphale?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a bright, warm day in London and the people milling about in Trafalgar Square and along the Charing Cross Road were clad in little more than jackets and light overcoats - which was rather curious, given that this was England in late December, not usually known for its temperate weather conditions. Crowley had even put the top down on his Bentley, and as he turned left onto Shaftesbury Avenue, he basked in the purrs and coos of appreciation from various pedestrians as he passed by.

The city was teeming with people, it being the first full day of trading after Christmas, and Crowley’s progress into Soho was slow, but for once he didn’t mind. It was pleasant to be back in London after such a long time away, and a peculiarly warm London for the time of year was all the more welcome. He had spent most of the last year in America; a brief visit to Syria had revolted even him, a demon hardened in Hell’s fires, and had sent him reeling away, sickened by the depths of horror achievable only by humanity, to seek out a more gentle evil, and after a few weeks spent in Vegas getting as drunk as the most bacchanalian of skunks, he had inveigled his way onto a certain Republican candidate’s speechwriting team and had spent a very enjoyable year putting ever more absurd and crazed sentences into the mouth of his new master and relishing the fallout across social media. But now he was home, and though he was as intent as ever on stirring up mischief, there was someone he wanted to see first.

As he swung round the corner into the little Soho side street where Aziraphale’s bookshop was, he felt an odd flutter inside him. He had not seen Aziraphale at all since New Year’s Day 2015, and for some reason this was making him nervous.

As he pulled up outside the shop, it was obvious even from the car that the main lights were out, and the whole building had a forbidding aspect. Next to the large CLOSED sign was a handwritten notice of Christmas opening times in Aziraphale’s usually neat copperplate, but the angel must either have been drunk or deliberately obfuscating, because it was illegible even to Crowley. 

He went in anyway. Locked doors never meant much to a demon of Hell. 

There was a pathetic string of fairy lights around the books in the window, as a very Aziraphalean token gesture to the season. They were out. Crowley picked up a book from a pile beside the front door and examined its spine, then dropped it back onto the pile again and wandered through to the back room.

“Angel? Angel - are you in there?”

There was a scuffle, and then a ting and rattle of cutlery on crockery. Emboldened, Crowley put his head round the door in time to see a mouse scurry under the door to the kitchenette; he’d disturbed it in the middle of gnawing at a piece of very stale bread on a plate on Aziraphale’s battered old coffee table. Next to the plate was a copy of the Daily Telegraph folded with the crossword uppermost, a pencil, and a mug of what proved on closer inspection to be cold and ancient tea, with large spots of milk floating unpleasantly on the top of it. Crowley bent automatically to replace the knife which the mouse had dislodged in its flight, then picked up the crossword. It was dated the 23rd of December. Crowley knew that the angel didn’t always do his crosswords on the same day they came out, but nonetheless it was clear that Aziraphale had not been here for several days. There was an eerie air of the Marie Celeste about the place, and Crowley didn’t like it.

He poked around the back room a little longer, then tried the shop, but there was nothing more to be found in either. Aziraphale was not there and had left no hint of where he might have gone to, or when he might return.

“And I’ve been away for a whole year!” said Crowley, aloud, giving voice to a growing peevishness.

Eventually he gave up and went back out into the street. He examined the sign on the front door again with no greater success, but just as he was about to get back into the Bentley and drive home, he heard a voice calling to him. He turned to see a tall man, slender, with hair turning to grey at the temples, standing in the doorway of Intimate Books, the shop next-door.

“He’s not in,” the man said.

“Yes, thanks, I can see that,” said Crowley, testily. He opened the driver’s door, then shut it again and went back round the car. “You don’t know where he’s gone, do you?”

The man shook his head. 

“Nae idea, pal,” he said. “He was here on Christmas Day, that I know ‘cause I saw him, then he took off on Boxing Day and hasnae been back since. Said he was goin’ away for a bit but he never said where nor how long. I’ve been keepin’ an eye on the place for him - I always do, when he goes off places.”

“Oh.” Crowley nodded. “Right. Thanks.” 

He turned, leapt into the Bentley, and swung off round the corner back onto Wardour Street, and Aziraphale’s neighbour shook his head and sighed in sympathy as he went back into his own establishment. For the owner of a bookshop named Intimate Books, he was really rather a romantic.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn’t until after New Year that Aziraphale returned home. Crowley was there, of course - he’d taken to going over once a day to keep an eye on the place, or so he told himself. At first he had just pottered about, touching the books, and then one afternoon he had cleared away the remains of Aziraphale’s last meal and washed up the plate, knife and mug. Then he had found himself straightening up some of the angel’s papers and sorting his unopened post into piles, and throwing out the junk mail and emptying the bins on collection day. After that it seemed an easy step to clean the kitchenette, clear the mouldy food out of the fridge, bash the cushions on the old battered sofa and armchair into some sort of shape, dust the bits of furniture he could reach…it wasn’t that he was being helpful, he told himself, merely that if he were going to wait for Aziraphale, he’d prefer to do so in a clean, tidy and pleasant-smelling place. 

In the course of all his cleaning, however, he never, ever moved the books, though he did occasionally pick up one or two of Aziraphale’s more prized treasures, just to look at, and (more unforgiveably) finished off his crossword.

It was another sunny afternoon, and Crowley was putting the papers on Aziraphale’s desk into some sort of order when the angel came through the door looking dusty, worn and weary. He was wearing his old overcoat and had a rainbow coloured scarf tied around his neck, and he was suspiciously muddy - his trousers were practically knee deep in it, while his ordinarily impeccable shirt and overcoat were speckled with mud and other grubby stains - and yet he managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere that crinkled up his tired eyes and brought warmth into the dingy shop.

“Crowley, my dear.”

Crowley straightened up guiltily and tried to look as if he’d been prying, rather than tidying.

“Oh, there you are,” he said with a forced nonchalance. “I was beginning to wonder…”

“I know,” said the angel, dropping an overnight bag onto the floor and stretching tired shoulders. “Geoff told me that you’d been over every day since Christmas.”

“Who’s Geoff?” 

“Next door,” said Aziraphale, pointing towards Intimate Books. “I’ve just been in to say hello.”

“What?” Crowley looked out of the shop window to the Bentley, parked in full view outside the shop, then back at the angel, feeling distinctly piqued. “You went in to see him before coming in to see me?”

“Yes, of course. He’s my key holder, he looks after the place when I’m away. It’s only polite to let him know that I’m back.”

“But…” Crowley couldn’t contain his peevishness any more than he could explain it, “but you knew that I was here!”

“Of course I did,” said Aziraphale. “But really, my dear, manners dictate…”

“Huh.” Crowley flounced through to the back room and Aziraphale, with an expression somewhere between annoyed and amused on his face, followed. He glanced around, taking in Crowley’s efforts at making the place look nice, and smiled suddenly. “Well, this is an unexpected pleasure, my de…”

“Where have you been?” demanded Crowley, deliberately ignoring Aziraphale’s efforts to lighten the mood, and the angel began to frown again.

“For that matter, where have you been?” he returned, a trifle testy himself. “I’ve not seen hide nor hair of you since this time last year.”

“That’s not the point,” said Crowley sullenly.

“Isn’t it?” The angel looked at him for a few moments, then sighed and collapsed into his armchair. “If you really want to know, I’ve been in France, Ukraine, France again, Kenya, Ireland, Syria, Cuba, Germany, Syria again, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Syria again, Paris, the Holy See…I’ve been in all sorts of places, my dear - you’ll have to wait if you want an extensive list.”

“No, no, I…” Crowley sighed and frowned, then pulled himself together and gestured to Aziraphale’s muddy clothing. “Where have you just been to get so filthy?”

“Oh, that.” Aziraphale seemed to notice the dirtiness of his attire for the first time. “I’ve been in Cumbria, Lancashire, Yorkshire…all over the north, really.”

“Doing…?”

Aziraphale gave him an uncomprehending look, then his face cleared.

“I suppose you’ve not been back for long and won’t have heard the news. There’s been widespread flooding in the northern English counties, both before and after Christmas. I’ve been…oh, I don’t know. Nudging consciences, reminding people that their fellow humans need them. But it’s all been rather wonderful, actually,” he added, leaning back and closing his eyes. “They’ve mostly not needed reminding. Hence…” he gestured to his trouser legs, “mucking in, quite literally. So I am sorry, my dear, to have missed you when you first arrived, but,” he said, looking up directly at the demon, “you are the one that has been away for an entire year, not me.”

“I know, but I…I’m sorry,” said Crowley and, unusually, he meant it.

“Apology accepted,” said the angel and sighed quietly, looking suddenly very grey and weary. Crowley frowned.

“Are you alright?”

With an effort, Aziraphale pulled himself together.

“I’m just very tired,” he said. “It’s been a busy few days, and all I really want is a little peace and quiet and _home_.” He patted a nearby book fondly and Crowley, who was still on high alert to take offence, gathered himself together.

“Right, then,” he said. “I’ll…go, then. Leave you to it.”

He suited his actions to his words and was almost at the door before he heard Aziraphale call out to him.

“Crowley!”

Crowley turned back. The angel wasn’t looking at him, but he was holding out a hand to stop him. 

“That’s not what I…” Aziraphale sighed, rolled his eyes, and turned to the demon. “Don’t go, my dear. Look - it’s a lovely afternoon. Why don’t we go and feed the ducks in the park? I think that could be rather restful.”

“Feed the ducks?” Crowley hesitated, then smiled. “Why not? We could get baked potatoes from the stall by the pond.”

“Baked potatoes!” The angel brightened suddenly. “That sounds positively divine, my dear. And when it gets dark, we can come back here and open the rather nice bottle of champagne I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

“I’m beginning to like this plan,” said Crowley, and grinned. Aziraphale beamed back at him and, heaving himself out of the armchair, went to pick up the bag he’d dropped by the shop door.

“Just let me go and change,” he said. “I’ve been wading in half the rivers of Northern England in these clothes and I’m starting to smell like it.”

He disappeared and Crowley, feeling more cheerful by the second, went out to wait by the Bentley. He looked in through the window at Aziraphale’s pathetic set of fairy lights, then clicked his fingers and watched as the string of fairy lights twinkled into life, glowing feebly against the grime of the shop window.

A few minutes later, Aziraphale emerged from the shop and slid into the passenger seat and, as the Bentley pulled away from the shop and around the corner, Geoff stood in the doorway of Intimate Books and sighed and smiled to see them go. He had always liked a happy ending.


End file.
